


Eight Times

by Embracingtheplotbunnies



Series: New Targaryen Dynasty [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Incest, Intended first in a series, Marriage, Miscarriage, R plus L equals J, Some hurt/comfort, but it's game of thrones so it shouldn't be a surprise, non graphic injury, post Battle for the Dawn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 05:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10892457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Embracingtheplotbunnies/pseuds/Embracingtheplotbunnies
Summary: Eight times Jon and Dany said they love each other-from the Battle for the Dawn to the birth of their first child, in a kingdom they're slowly piecing back together. Mostly fluff.





	Eight Times

**Author's Note:**

> Hello,  
> So, to preface: this is my first time posting on the Archive so it might take me a little while to learn how to navigate all of the new stuff (I usually post on fanfiction.net). So bear with me as I learn my way around. 
> 
> I'm planning this to be the first one shot in a longer series; it's based on a fanfic that I wrote beginning in summer of 2015 and just finished earlier this year, detailing how I (wish) the series would end; while I haven't posted the actual fanfic, especially because I think I want to do some revising on it, I'm trying to explain what happened in it so reading it isn't necessary-so if something doesn't make sense yet it may in another story in the series so stay tuned! 
> 
> Again, this is more of wishful thinking than anything else-I want to explore the idea of a new Targaryen dynasty, and I think it'll be much more domestic than lots of the fanfics in this category. But as I said, we're still at the very beginning and there's still lots to explore. Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> From my fanfiction.net days-I don't own Game of Thrones or any of the characters. All rights to George RR Martin and HBO respectively
> 
> EDIT: As of May 25th, 2017 (no new content added; a few things changed for clarity in later fics)

I  
The first time they say it, everything is on fire. 

They lie together in the Lord’s bedchamber at Winterfell, once belonging to Eddard Stark and his lady wife and now abandoned because Sansa hasn’t yet moved in, in a bed with a grey and white coverlet and simple white sheets. A fire blazes in the grate; they can hear the crackle and pop of the wood, in sharp contrast to the snow whirling outside the window where the dead prepare to march on the castle. 

Her head rests on his shoulder, both exhausted from their lovemaking. Their clothes are in a pile by the door, knocked together carelessly and hopelessly wrinkled and the sheets are twisted around them; though Jon doesn't want this moment to end, he knows they have to get some sleep. The Battle for the Dawn will commence the following morning and they’re already running on fumes. But he can’t rest with her beside him, feeling her hair tickle his skin, feeling her fingers trailing down his neck, feeling little shocks of feeling wherever his exposed skin happens to brush hers. 

As if reading his thoughts she rolls over slightly to look at him, eyes glittering with laughter even though there’s really nothing to be laughing about. “Get some sleep,” she whispers. “You’ll need it, come morning.” She settles herself more comfortably into his side; he can feel the steady drone of her heartbeat. 

He reaches down to twine his hand with hers and she lets him. For this night, duty doesn’t matter; he is hers and she is his with no consequences, because this time tomorrow they’ll all be dead anyways. All the obsidian and the wildfire in the world won’t save them now, but he’s surprised to find that he doesn’t care. All that matters is her-and now that he knows how it feels to lie with her, he doesn’t really care what happens next. “And you as well.” 

He’s just listening to her breathing even out, watching the fire’s light paint shadows on the ceiling, when she whispers something into the darkness-something so quiet, he almost has to strain to hear her: “I love you.” 

He squeezes her hand and presses one last sleepy kiss to the top of her forehead as he lies back among the pillows and listens to the sounds of the castle creaking around him-home once again, although it’s been so long that every sound is new and exciting once again, even the sounds he thought he knew by heart. “I love you too.” 

He can’t believe he’s never said it before. How can something that feels this right be this wrong? 

II  
The second time they say it, the world as they know it is succumbing to winter.

The Night King lies dead beside them, body disintegrating into a wash of icy crystals, Lightbringer lies half a foot away, thrown from Jon’s hand as soon as he pulled it out of the Other’s chest, still pulsing faintly in the calming winter storm. Around them, what few men remain from the battle pause and gather themselves as the onslaught of Walkers seems to slow and sputter out; they begin to believe that they might survive this. 

It doesn’t matter. He worries that she won’t. 

He cradles her head on his lap and tries not to notice the blood under his hand, tries not to gauge whether it’s turning cold, whether she was stabbed with a normal sword or with a blade of ice. He tries not to notice any of this at all-not the way the color is draining from her face, not the way her fingernails are digging into his wrist and her breaths come in gasping pants. “We won,” he whispers, his mouth tasting like blood and iron, like wishes and pleas to any gods he can think of. “We won. The Others are dead. We won.” 

She tries to smile up at him but coughs instead, blood staining her new black dress. “Yes. I suppose we did.” Her whisper is thready and weak. 

“Don’t worry. We’ll find someone for you-” He squeezes her hand and looks around, trying to find anyone familiar-but through the lessening snow he still can’t see anyone who looks familiar, and the dragons are keening loudly over their fallen brother and it’s all too much-

“Jon.” Her voice is even smaller, even quieter, but suddenly it’s the most important sound in the world. “You...have to take the throne.” 

“I can’t-”

“You’re the last Targaryen-"

“I’m not a Targaryen.” It comes out sharply and she flinches, although whether from the force of his words or the pain he’s not sure. 

She shakes her head, back and forth and back and forth until he holds it still. “Please, Jon.” 

He wants to say no, he wants to pretend this is all a bad dream because he can’t be king-who would listen to him, in the first place? Dany is the one meant for ruling. “I won’t have to-”

“Jon.” Her voice is desperate now, choked and wavery. 

"Fine.” He can feel her fingernails carving little bloody crescents into his palms. “Fine, I’ll do it.” But even so, he silently begs her not to die on him.

She squeezes his hand-though her strength is ebbing so rapidly that it’s barely more than a touch-and she looks upwards, towards him and towards the watery sunlight trying its best to peek through the cloud layer. “Jon...I love you.” With that, her eyes flutter shut. 

He doesn’t know when he starts saying “I love you too,” or how many times he says it, mingled with every prayer he’s ever learned; only that the next time he looks up the Children are standing next to him. One picks up Lightbringer and the other says “Can you carry her? We don’t have much time.” 

III  
She touches the scar under her light blue dress, still raised and red after nearly half a year, and winces slightly when her fingers brush across the taut skin. The Maester says that there will always be a scar-it’s fitting, she thinks, considering all she’s gone through. It’s only fair that the world leaves its mark on her. 

Tyrion says that she’s become distracted. She doesn’t think that’s true. She still pays attention to everything she has to-it’s just not her fault that ruling the Seven Kingdoms isn’t as interesting as she thought it would be, now that everything has calmed down and most of the hard rebuilding decisions have already been made. She spends her days ensconced in the Red Keep, listening to her advisors and spending afternoons reading out on the balcony so she can look out at the water over the city.  
He says it’s because Jon refused to come back to the palace with her. 

It’s not like there was a scene; he just came up to her one night a few days before her caravan was set to go back to King’s Landing-she supposed she just assumed he’d be going with her-and said that he would be staying in Winterfell with his sisters for the foreseeable future, helping Sansa adjust to her new role as Lady of Winterfell. She could have forced him to go with her instead-for all anyone knew he was just the lowly bastard of Winterfell and it would be well within her rights as Queen-but she didn’t, because she knew how it felt to be forced into a life she didn’t want and it wasn’t an experience she wanted to have forced onto anyone else. If he didn’t want to be the king, she wouldn’t push him. So she’d smiled and said that she wished him all the best-which she did-and then three days later she and Tyrion had gone back to King’s Landing. 

She hadn’t said goodbye to Jon, obviously. And she hadn’t seen him since. She ravened Sansa every once in awhile; Sansa sent her long and detailed summaries about life at Winterfell and mentioned Jon every occasionally-he was going to the Wall to organize what remained of the Night’s Watch or accompanying Gendry and Arya to the Twins as they went to the Capital to be crowned-but for the most part he became an afterthought, a footnote. 

But every so often she would still wake up in the middle of the night, still swearing that she could taste his lips on hers or the feel of him inside of her. She relegated him to a night fantasy; he had made his decision and now she had to make hers.

Now she breaks her fast alone on her balcony, sprinkling extra brown sugar onto the tough meal they eat in the Seven Kingdoms and stirring it in until she can no longer see it-she still hasn’t acquired a taste for it yet, but she’s determined to try. Her mind runs through the list of what she has to get done today-there are advisors to meet with and a delegation from Storm’s End to house; an ambassador from the Iron Bank and a group of Lannisters with their monthly reparations tithe. 

She is fair-the payment is nothing they can’t easily handle. She’s sure they have more gold squirreled away in Casterly Rock than they’re ever likely to tell her about. 

When the afternoon gets too hot, she plans to spend a few hours in the empty throne room-sitting on the makeshift throne until she decides what she wants to do now that there isn’t an Iron Throne anymore. It’s as if, as she sits in the chamber of her ancestors and soaks up their wisdom, they’ll somehow sink into her veins too and make her a better ruler. 

She’s just forcing herself to take another bite, paging through a sheaf of papers indiscriminately, when the door opens and Tyrion gestures her inside. “There’s someone in the stable yard-he just arrived, and he wants to meet you.”

She sighs loudly. “The delegation hasn’t arrived already, has it?”

Then she realizes that he said ‘he’. Singular. He obviously just means the ambassador, but of course her childish mind jumps right to the name she most wants to hear. 

Perhaps it’s this longing that makes his mouth form the words “Not quite.” 

She’s up like a shot and out the door, making directly for the stable yards, barely feeling the eyes of her Unsullied guards on her back as she passes, knowing she shouldn’t be hoping-and yet, she can’t help it. Not now.

She loses a sandal when she opens the door but she doesn’t realize it; doesn’t feel the wet dew on the bottom of her foot or the sun on the top of her head because she’s too busy scanning the stable yard and suddenly there he is. He seems, in one glance, as if he hasn’t changed at all in the months it’s been since they last saw each other-he wears his hair the same way, the same direwolf is pinned to the lapel of his cape-but he also seems to stand taller, to hold himself with more self assurance. 

He wears it well.

He’s not facing her at first because he’s instructing the stable boys in how to care for his horse-but then he is and she has to skid to a stop so suddenly she almost falls backwards. For a moment they look at each other (he looks surprised to see her, even though she thinks it must be obvious that he’s come for just that reason) and she’s not sure whether she should slap him or kiss him or maybe both. 

In the end, all she can say is his name. 

He looks at her for a moment as if he’s not quite sure where she came from, as if he might be dreaming too. Then he looks her over carefully, as if making sure she’s still in one piece-before his eyes flick to the members of her Queensguard, who are watching them carefully, and then to Tyrion, who looks a bit too pleased with himself. “May I-”

She embraces him before she can stop herself. His arms feel the same; they wrap around her the same way and hold her almost protectively. It feels right to be here, in his grasp-like something half remembered from a dream, some sensation long since forgotten. Finally, she draws back-and the tough mask comes down again, because she’ll be damned if she lets him walk back into her court that easily after everything he’s done. “Why are you here? I thought you’d decided to stay in Winterfell.”

He trails his fingers through her hair and she has to hold her breath to keep from crying out because his skin gives her a shock every time it touches hers. “Sansa had to talk some sense into me.”

“Oh?” The joking tone comes almost naturally, settling into their routine. “And how did she do that?” 

“It’s what my mother would have wanted.” His eyes are laughing, and she loves it because she can’t remember how long it’s been since she’s seen them that way. “Unless you’ve already made other...arrangements.” As if. The throne is just as much his as it is hers. 

She smiles back. “That depends. What can you offer?”

“A marriage for love, instead of for convenience. A knowledge of Westeros, its people, and-” He looks pointedly at her bare shoulders, “its climate. No political experience, but a willingness to learn. A pledge to be faithful to our union, come what may.”  
She shakes her head once, wondering what she can possibly say other than the truth. “I’ll think about it.” 

He slides his hand around her neck and tilts her head up to him, carefully fitting his lips to hers. Their kiss is sweet but chaste-too chaste; it leaves her hungry for more and she knows he’s personally doing it to annoy her. “I love you. Before...I wasn’t sure how to admit it to myself...but now-”

She kisses him again to shut him up-which he does; he’s so damn predictable. “I love you too. I’m glad you came here-I thought I was going to have to come to you myself.”

He raises an eyebrow curiously and she wonders if he’s thinking the same thing she is: as if I’d let anyone else have you. 

IV.  
Their wedding day is white and filled with flowers. 

Delegates from each of the Seven Kingdoms are there, along with a few visiting lords and ladies and a whole bunch of people neither of them know but Tyrion invited anyway to curry favor. The wedding feast is elaborate, but not unduly so-thirty courses; the remains go to Flea Bottom for the very poorest. Tyrion is right, as always; they need the peasants on their side, and the way to a peasant’s heart is through bread. 

Even though everything is very ceremonial it’s not really their wedding-they were married the night before in the palace godswood, in a very small ceremony attended only by Tyrion and Arya to give them away and Sansa, Gendry, Missandei, and Grey Worm to serve as witnesses. 

But for their court wedding they do everything right-they wear the right outfits, she allows Sansa to braid light purple flowers into her coronet braid, two little girls carry her immense train down the carpet that leads to the altar of the makeshift sept that has been erected in place of the Sept of Baelor, and she is wed to Jon Targaryen, her nephew (although no one knows it yet; they plan for the news to come out later, more naturally) in the sight of gods and men. 

She promotes Corlys Velaryon, the man Tyrion intended for her to marry, to be her Master of Ships. 

Jon is waiting for her at the altar, rays of sunlight playing through his curly hair, radiant in a red and black doublet with a silver direwolf pin just below his collar-remnants of the world he left behind in the frigid north. Her friends and advisors smile out at her from the first few rows of stadium style seating-she even sees Arya leaning on Gendry’s shoulder tentatively, as if experimenting with how it feels. But she looks away as soon as she notices her looking. 

The ceremony is long and a bit tedious; all traditions have to be followed through carefully and there are all manners of things to be said and vows to be exchanged. It’s not quite as long or intricate as her marriage in Meereen to Hizdahr Zo Loraq, or perhaps it only feels that way because the wedding is to someone she truly loves. 

Finally, when everything is said and done, they are allowed to kiss in the light of the setting sun, king and queen at last.  
“I love you,” she whispers so only the two of them can hear her, even though she doesn’t care who does. 

“I know,” he replies, laying a kiss in the shell of her ear. She finds she has no choice but to smile. “Always and forever.” 

He tastes like the bitter wind of the far north and the scent of white flowers. 

V.  
The tournament stands are hot and crowded; their attendants have thrown up a length of fabric to tempt a nonexistent breeze, but it doesn’t seem to be making much of a difference. Jon can practically feel himself sweating through his new doublet as the tilts happen in front of them-one pair of knights after another dashing at each other with horses sweating and swords raised. He wouldn’t need to look to see what was happening if he didn’t want to; he’d be able to tell just from the way the crowd roars whenever someone gets unhorsed. But he and his queen have the best seats in the stands-by custom, of course. 

He still can’t quite believe just how much work it takes to pull off a tournament-or how much money. But Tyrion insisted because apparently it’s customary to have a tourney in honor of a new king’s ascension-so the ravens were sent out and their guests began to arrive in great retinues, in carriages or on foot, with armor clean enough to eat off of or barely a shield to their name. Jon has seen them all; he’ll fight in the lists tomorrow and he wants to make sure he knows his opponents. It wouldn’t do for him, the new king, to be unseated in his first fight. 

The crowd roars their approval as another knight falls to the dirt, swearing profusely. Dany laughs; he can hear her high, clear voice echoing out over the stands-happy and carefree. When she looks at him, her eyes are dancing. “Have you ever been so far away from the battlefield before?”

He shakes his head. “Although I have to admit, I’m quite enjoying the view. Not so much the heat.” 

She moves a little closer, her leg brushing his underneath her simple red dress, and reaches across the arm of her chair to twine her hand in his. He’s still not used to her constant affection; the touch of her skin sends tiny shivers through his skin and he suspects she knows full well the power she has over him. 

She’s probably enjoying it, now that he thinks about it. 

He’ll have to change that later. 

“I love you,” she whispers as they look out at the stands and the midmorning sun beating down on the crowd and the knights on their tall horses, thundering across the field and sending up plumes of dirt behind them. 

“I love you too,” he whispers back. 

VI.  
Dany hasn’t spoken to him in five days. 

She hasn’t spoken to anyone, really; she just stays in her room, sometimes sleeping, sometimes sitting in front of her mirror and braiding her long hair down her back only to pull it apart again, and sometimes just sitting in front of the window and looking out at the world. Her eyes are veiled with sadness, just like his are; but unlike his, he can see it written on her face.  
He’s told her more times than he can count that it wasn’t her fault and there was nothing she could have done-nothing anyone could have done to save their child. Even though they did everything right, even though they designed a black and red nursery and stayed up talking long into the night, imagining what the baby would look like-would it have his hair or her eyes? It wasn’t their fault. He had to believe that. Certainly not hers. 

He knew, as soon as he raced into the bathroom and saw all that blood-saw his wife in the middle of it, crying. He’d run for Sam but it had already been too late. The baby was gone and there was nothing they could do about it. Sam had been able to find a gender; it had been a little girl. They hadn’t agreed on a name yet: she wanted Valaena and he was stubbornly holding onto Lyarra. 

He takes a seat on the bed next to her and she barely rouses to look at him, barely glancing at the plate of toast he sets down on her nightstand. “Your people miss you,” he says quietly, carefully, feeling her stir beside him but still not look at him. “We’ve had to dismiss petitioners. You know I can’t see nearly as many as you can.”

She won’t look at him. “You could if you tried.” 

He sighs, lying back on the pillows and looking up at the painted ceiling. “It’s not your fault.”

She doesn’t reply. 

“You know that, don’t you?”

She sighs raggedly, a noise shot through with exhaustion and sadness. He hates it, hates how helpless it makes him feel because he knows she’s gone beyond a place where he can help her. “She was our child, Jon-and we lost her.” Again, he feels her thinking, remembering the son she lost on the Dothraki Sea. It wasn’t supposed to happen. The Red Keep was supposed to be safe-for her and for their child. He’d promised her, reassured her every time she worried, because he’d never thought the gods would see fit to take another child away from her. 

He holds her close and feels her entire frame tremble with the force of her sobs. But he continues to hold her, even as he feels his shirt slowly soaking through with her tears, her heartbeat sharp and erratic. He runs his fingers through her hair and tries to calm her, saying that they’ll try again and eventually things will stop hurting so much but eventually he runs out of words and they lie there together, using the strength of their unity to keep the pain and anguish of their unspeakable loss at bay for a moment or two. 

“I love you,” he whispers, hoping this at least will penetrate her grief and leave some kind of understanding behind. 

It’s a long few minutes before she finally replies “I love you too.”

VII.  
The Dornish battlefield is so hot Daenerys can practically see the heat radiating off of it in waves. The opposing side shimmers like a mirage, the Yronwoods, Wades, and Shells, while the Martells and their other bannermen are backed by the reds and blacks of the Crown. There was a rebellion against Nymeria Martell’s leadership, led by a few lesser houses who felt they had been cheated out of Dornish glory during the War of King’s Landing and struck back at the young Lady Martell by killing Ellaria Sand. 

They’d arrived as soon as they heard. Dany will never forget how Obara and Tyene led the first charge into King’s Landing and died doing it. 

For the last couple of days they’ve tried everything they can to parley but they haven’t been able to make peace and they’ve decided enough is enough; the soldiers are preparing to fight and she stands on the sidelines, watching her husband prepare.  
Jon slides on his armor and she fastens it obligingly, running a hand down the smooth of the muscles of his abdomen when she’s sure no one else is looking. He laughs and captures her hand in his, kissing her fingers before he gently touches her stomach, which has just begun to stretch. Her third pregnancy. Their third chance. 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she says quietly, standing tall so she can plant a kiss on his cheek. “We need you. We both need you.” 

“I know,” he replies, wiping the hair from his eyes as the sun beats down on him. It reminds her of days in the Red Wastes, only there is something lovely about the Dornish deserts and the way the people who live in it have been able to eke out such a remarkable, spartan living from the unforgiving sand. “I’ll be back soon, before you can miss me.” 

“I always miss you,” she replies. It won’t be a hard battle; the other rebels will fall into line once the tide begins to turn and the victors will be back by nightfall, but there's always a chance, however slim…

The horn sounds to signal the oncoming battle and his horse snorts-a tall, black horse with the wind in his feet, given to the king as a gift of gratitude from Lady Nymeria. The battlefield beckons; it can feel it on the air, as they all can. So there’s nothing more for her to do but to press another kiss, whisper soft, to his lips. “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” He rests his hand on the swell of her stomach, as though he can see the baby growing inside. “You and our child.” 

She has already lost too many. She will not lose another one. 

She watches with her back ramrod straight, peering into the midmorning sun, as he swings himself onto his horse in one even movement and rides out of Sunspear’s gates, off to engage in battle with the other soldiers whose swords flash like rays of sunlight turned to quicksilver. 

VIII.  
The morning sun has just peeked over the eastern horizon when the midwife returns from the Queen’s chambers and beckons Jon inside. “You’re welcome to come inside now,” she says with an exhausted smile. “It’s a little girl. Both her and the Queen are healthy.” 

He barely remembers saying thank you to her before he crosses into the birthing room and sees his wife seated upright in her bed, flushed from her nearly eighteen hour labor but radiant with happiness, holding a small bundle of blankets in her arms. A thrill of shock and pure happiness zips through him at the sight of it and the baby within-eyes open and looking around curiously, with a fluff of blonde hair on top of her head. 

Her eyes are dark, like his. 

Dany smiles up at him. “Meet Rhaenyra. She’ll be strong and daring, just like her namesake.” 

He kisses the baby’s head softly, carefully. “I like it. She’s beautiful.” 

“She’s healthy.” She runs a hand through her daughter’s hair and almost looks sad, as if she’s remembering all the babies they lost. 

But Jon squeezes her hand to bring her back to the here and now. This is what is important now, this is what matters. “And she’ll stay that way.” 

“Of course.” 

The baby’s big brown eyes swivel to meet his, and he swears her tiny face breaks into a smile. He can’t help smiling back-and then leaning in to kiss them both, his heart feeling so full he could cry. 

He finally understands now why men of the Night’s Watch aren’t meant to take wives or father children. How much would he sacrifice for the sake of his wife, for his child, though he’s known her only for an hour? 

He hopes he never has to make that decision, because he fears he knows what he would choose, every time. “I love you.”  
She smiles back, as if to say she knows, and then she places their daughter in his arms. At first he worries he might drop her, but then he slowly becomes more used to the idea of the baby and her weight in his arms-and all too soon he’s kissing her forehead too. 

They linger there together as the sunlight streams in from the window behind them and outlines their small family in gold. These are the times that matters, he thinks: the times that memory will never quite recapture. 

But it doesn’t feel like an ending; no, as he looks at Rhaenyra he’s sure that it’s a beginning. And he can’t wait to see what comes next.


End file.
